


Supply and Demand

by prairiecrow



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Established Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Insults, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:04:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter in a supply closet aboard the Defiant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supply and Demand

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the S6 episode "A Time to Stand".

"Genetically engineered indeed…" It was a low resentful grumble, but nevertheless clearly intended to be overheard.

Julian Bashir, who had crossed to a nearby table to pick up a dermal regenerator, turned back with the instrument in hand. "Excuse me?"

Garak spun round to face him, his tone turning hectoring again. "Well, look at you! You act as if you haven't a care in the world. It's exactly that kind of smug, superior attitude that makes people like you so… unpopular!"

Bashir fixed the belligerent Cardassian with a stare of feigned disbelief. "Are you  _trying_  to insult me?" he asked, already knowing the answer — and welcoming the challenge.

Several months ago Chief Miles O'Brien had informed him, with rueful amazement, that among Cardassians argumentativeness could also be a form of flirtation. Pretending surprise, Bashir had concealed a secret smile: he'd picked up that particular piece of knowledge of his own accord almost two years previous, when Deep Space Nine's resident tailor had showed up at his quarters to continue their lunchtime debate with a belligerence that had startled and angered his Human friend — until, in the midst of the pacing and shouting, Bashir had noticed that Garak's pupils were dilated and that there was the slightest darkening of the hide between the scales on his neck, two symptoms of sexual arousal which he'd read about in the Federation medical files but had never thought to see from this particular source. When Garak had escalated the situation by lunging toward him he'd moved forward to meet the attack with a kiss and an embrace that were equally aggressive, and five minutes of near-combat later he was pinned to the mattress of his bed and gulping ragged breaths as the Cardassian rode his bared ass (they hadn't taken time to do more than strip away the absolute minimum of clothing) with a savagery that he found perversely satisfying. Afterwards, slightly dazed, he'd asked Garak just what the hell  _that_  had been about and received a smug smile in return, along with an enigmatic comment that education could take various forms as the occasion warranted… and in the months that followed he'd learned that while Garak could be tender when the mood struck him he was much more likely to initiate a sexual interlude with sarcasm and insults, culminating in a yelling match that Bashir, as he learned to appreciate the cultural nuances, came to experience as incredibly stimulating and erotic.

"A thirty-two point seven percent chance of survival — I call  _that_  insulting!" The fire flashing in Garak's eyes was eloquent to someone who knew what subtleties to look for, even if the circumstances dictated that they had to keep their voices down. 

Bashir, applying the regenerator to the purpled patch of hide over Garak's right temple, infused his tone with just the right amount of dismissive indifference. "Don't take it so personally, Garak." He appeared to ignore the spy's aggrieved huff and eyeroll. "It's strictly a matter of mathematics." 

"No!" The word was as cutting as the slash of a whip, followed by a softer inflection for contrast. "It's strictly a matter of our lives." Garak met his gaze for an instant, then looked away in evident disgust. "You're not genetically engineered," he muttered contemptuously. "You're a Vulcan."

"If I'm a Vulcan," Bashir countered at once, lowering the regenerator to offer his friend his most winning expression, "then how do you explain my boyish smile?" He let his hand rest briefly between Garak's shoulder blades as he did so, just to emphasize the point he was making.

A beat. A faint curve on grey lips, full of promise. "Not so boyish anymore, Doctor." And he took his leave with bruises still intact, knowing that Bashir would be aware of his destination and would follow — even if he had to engage in a brief internal struggle before doing so. 

 _I have patients… but Ensign James is on duty on the ward… she can keep an eye on things while I attend to — other business._  He set up a series of sample analyses with a few quick taps to his screen and headed out of the sickbay at a brisk pace.  _It's a matter of the mental health of the crew,_  he reasoned.  _Tensions are high and a bit of relief will be good for everyone concerned. It won't take more than a few minutes. Then I can finish treating his injury and everybody can get back to work in a much better mood._

Aboard the  _Defiant_ , of course, there was no such thing as the luxury of privacy, but that didn't mean they were without options. Within thirty seconds of Garak's observation that Bashir's smile was not so boyish anymore they were both in the one spot on the ship where they weren't likely to get caught: a supply closet just down the hall from the ship's sickbay. The door hadn't even closed behind Bashir when Garak moved in close from the shadows, biting at the younger man's jaw and growling low in his throat while the Human's hand dipped below his waistline to cup and rub and squeeze the spy's groin. He had to apply plenty of pressure: Garak's clothes were thick, cut to keep out the cold air that Humans found temperate, and he was wearing thermal underwear besides. 

"We'll have to be quick," Bashir whispered, and Garak's only reply was a deeper growl and a harder nip. Broad hands stroked down over Bashir's trim buttocks and gripped tightly, pulling their pelvises together. Hardness met hardness and Bashir bit his lip and stifled a whimper, not only because he was afraid of someone hearing him but because he didn't want to give his friend the satisfaction.

The first time Garak had approached him for sex, back when the  _Defiant_  had just left Deep Space Nine on its way to the front lines of the Dominion War, Bashir had pushed him away with an outraged whisper: their friends-with-benefits arrangement on the station had been one thing, but trying to carry on a sexual relationship on a not-overly-large warship was another thing entirely. Garak had smiled, that sly smirk he assumed when he was five steps ahead of everyone around him, and whispered back that he'd scouted the ship's interior — "How did you get past security?" "You don't want to know, Doctor…" — and found a place that would fulfill their needs admirably. Thus the supply closet, which was one point five meters by two meters and dimly lit and, Bashir was fairly certain, a rendezvous for other couples who called the  _Defiant_  home.

At the moment, though, it was all theirs. In some Obsidian Order combat move that Bashir had never managed to get the hang of Garak turned them both around and ended up "on top", pressing the slighter Human into the narrow space between a crate of hypospray cartridges and several rolls of old-fashioned sterile binding. Bashir fitted himself into it with a lithe wriggle and a push: he'd been in here before, after all, and Garak knew enough tricks that he always managed to wind up in the better position.

 _Mind you,_  Bashir thought a little dizzily as his back met the wall and that cool agile mouth closed over his and proceeded to steal his breath away,  _if anyone comes along it's_ his _ass that'll be front and centre, not mine._  Whoever that hypothetical person was, he just prayed that it wasn't Miles: the last thing the Chief's nerves needed was the sight of that many naked ridges and scales, especially with his best friend's face visible over one wide grey shoulder, probably contorted with pleasure.

 _Probably?_  He thrust back with his tongue, twining and stroking and exploring, and pushed with his pelvis, grinding cock against cock. He couldn't feel the Cardassian's penile ridges through the dense fabric but he knew they were there, could clearly imagine them, could almost taste them in fact. Garak hissed softly and caught both his wrists and pinned them hard to the narrow space of wall on either wide of Bashir's hips, bending his head to press a vaguely threatening kiss to Bashir's exposed collarbone; in his turn, Bashir turned his head enough to touch his lips gently to Garak's face, along the right eye ridge where the nasty bruise still flared.

Garak chuffed slightly breathless laughter. "Kissing it better won't help, my dear Doctor."

"Mmph." He continued to apply his mouth to the sensitive skin sheathing the ridge, teasing it with a quick stroke of his tongue and hearing another tiny hiss escape Garak's lips. "You were saying?"

Garak released one wrist to press a hand to the hollow of Bashir's throat, where both the collar of the doctor's science blue undershirt and his uniform jacket were provocatively open. The sight of the Human's slender neck, smooth and golden and displayed as tempting bait, always got the Cardassian going. He bit the dusky skin just above the junction of this thumb and forefinger, then muttered against it: "Has anyone ever told you that you talk far too much?"

"Said the pot to the kettle," Bashir retorted, infusing the whisper with all the cutting vehemence he could muster. Oh, how he missed their shouting matches! Garak had a wonderful voice, capable of beguiling persuasion or brutal scorn, and it had been exhilarating to hear it glide over that full range in the course of verbal foreplay.

"Mrrm." Another bite, this one almost hard enough to draw blood, then a thin hiss full of contempt: "At least when  _I_  open my mouth something worthwhile emerges. All you ever have to offer are Federation platitudes and puerile observations on whatever subject your pathetic enthusiasm has latched onto this week."

"Better that than your brainwashed stridencies about 'Cardassian honor' and 'culture', or whatever the hell it is you've decided you lizards do better than anyone else." He used his free hand to grip and squeeze Garak's rounded ass, then raised it to take hard hold of his left neckridge, digging his fingertips into the hide in between two of the lines of scales in a way that was meant to be insanely provocative. Garak hissed and transferred his teeth to the left side of Bashir's neck, tightening his grip on the Human's throat and wrist in a way that made Bashir twist against his hold and sent his pulse soaring at the same time. "Get off of me, you repulsive old snake!"

"Repulsive?" Ah, there was the seductive purr. He pressed his hips forward in a way that emphasized the throbbing pulse in Bashir's erection. "How typical! You can't even agree with yourself. Your mouth says one thing but your  _thernek_  says another. Which of them has more native intelligence, I wonder?"

"Intelligence? Hah!" He rolled his eyes and managed to insinuate his free hand between them, the better to start opening the front of Garak's tunic, which was one of his favorites, not least because its hidden fasteners were less of a nightmare than some of the Cardassian's other creations. "As if you could judge! All you ever do is parrot back the propaganda drilled into you by the State. My semen has a higher IQ than you do on your best days!" When Garak reared back a little, both to facilitate his efforts with the tunic and to glare into his eyes, Bashir allowed himself a slow smirk. "Maybe that's why you like swallowing it so much. You're hoping that some of its brilliance will transfer to you by association!"

The blue eyes narrowed, gleaming dangerously even in the dimness. Bashir knew that look well and had just enough time to brace himself before he found himself jerked forward, spun around, and slammed against the wall again with considerably more force. He considered lashing backwards with an elbow or a kick but was mindful of the supplies stacked all around them: he didn't find the thought of putting fallen boxes and crates back in order after a hard fucking to be particularly appealing. Instead he surrendered to the iron grip on his neck and waist, and closed his eyes, and let Garak's voice, harsh in his ear, wash over him: "My, you're a mouthy little slut, aren't you?"

"That's rich," Bashir ground out, "coming from a filthy  _etarak p'nosta_  like you!"

He could well imagine the way Garak's mouth curled into a snarl at that vulgarity referring to an older male who paid younger males to cater to his sexual perversities — it was a low blow, the lowest Bashir was willing to deal in this war of words (he also knew a couple of phrases referring to parentage, but that was a place he wasn't willing to go with Garak, ever). "Better an  _etarak p'nosta_  than a genetically engineered freak, my dear — at least I can claim that I've come by my failings naturally. You can't even cling to that excuse." He stepped back just enough to slap Bashir's ass, never releasing his grip on the Human's neck. "Hips back," he barked, and Bashir obeyed, putting both hands flat to the wall and angling his pelvis away from it and bracing his feet about a fifteen centimetres apart. Without further preamble Garak reached around and deftly opened his uniform pants. "You're smart enough to take orders, I see. Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

That last sentence contained a shift in tone from aggressive to caressing: still threatening, but with an implication of affection that gave Bashir a helpless thrill every time he heard it.  _I'm not the only one who's learned the rules of the game,_  he thought as Garak stripped his pants and underwear down to his upper thighs, still one-handed, letting his cock finally swing free in the cool filtered air; a second later he heard the shift of stiff fabric as the tailor attended to his own clothing.  _And Garak's willing to play along, at least part of the time. I suppose I shouldn't look a gift horse in the —_  

Then his thoughts derailed as a thick grey finger, thoughtfully lubricated with a stroke along the Cardassian's slick penis, slid into his clasping asshole to rub against his prostate, sweet liquid heat that made his groan in spite of himself, and for a few seconds everything was slow deep strokes of preparation… and then, oh God  _yes_ , and Bashir smothered his cries against his bare forearm as Garak took care of him both in front and behind, clasping fist and thick ridged hardness driving him higher and higher… until everything exploded in a burst of fierce electric radiance. Still shuddering, he heard Garak utter a guttural growl against his shoulder before filling him with pulses of cool liquid, slumping against him with a sharp exhalation of relief and release.

For several seconds they remained in that position, leaning against the wall and catching their breath. Bashir, his eyes closed, savoured the feeling of Garak buried deep inside him: it was a pleasure, like so many others, that this damnable war had largely banished from his life. When Garak brought the hand that had taken care of his cock to his lips he carefully licked it clean of semen, enjoying the rich salt taste, and when the Cardassian took hold of his shoulders and gently turned him around he sighed with undisguised contentment as Garak went down on one knee in front of him and took care of the last few drops clinging to the deliciously sensitive head.

"Oh." Bashir tilted back his head and put his forearm across his eyes, letting a silly grin spread over his face as Garak's tongue did wonderful things to his most secret flesh. "I take it all back. You have the most talented mouth this side of Risa."

"Why  _thank_  you!" He could hear the smile in Garak's voice as he pulled up and fastened the Starfleet uniform pants with a tailor's nimble fingers. "I must say that you don't do so badly yourself, when you're properly inspired."

"Mm." The prospect of standing here for at least another ten minutes, letting the wall take his weight and holding Garak's sturdy body close and enjoying the various pleasures of kisses and smiles and clever words, was distinctly tempting — but he was on duty and Garak was still bruised and contused. He let his arm fall from his eyes and extended that hand to help Garak back to his feet, an offer which the spy accepted with a little nod and a tiny grunt as the knee his weight had rested on audibly popped. "I can take care of that with an injection, you know."

"I'm sure you can." Garak closed up his own clothing again, not meeting Bashir's eyes. "Another time, perhaps."

Bashir sighed, making no effort to hide his annoyance at encountering that damned Cardassian evasiveness again, along with Garak's lingering reluctance to seek any medical treatment unless absolutely necessary. He knew it would be useless to argue the point, so instead he said: "That bruise still needs treatment, though. Be sure to come by Sickbay before you go back to those star charts."

This time Garak looked him in the eyes with a smile that appeared to be more genuine. "Of course, Doctor. I wouldn't dream of disobeying a direct order from the CMO." He tidied up his clothing with a final tug on the hem of his tunic, then gestured elegantly toward the exit. "After you?"

Bashir gave him a final look combining affection and stern exasperation before grabbing one of the rolls of sterile binding — if anyone saw him emerging from the supply closet he needed to have an obvious reason for being there — and stepping back out into the hallway, which turned out to be deserted. He headed toward the sickbay as quickly as he'd left it, trusting that Garak would follow him after a prudent interval and hoping that such trust was not misplaced. He had learned many things about his elusive friend over the past five years, not the least of which was that being the Cardassian's lover involved no guarantees when it came to compliance.

And yet he went back to work with a faint smile on his lips and warm contentment in every fibre of his being. He'd been exhausted and in an ill humour after treating so many wounded, but five minutes in that supply closet had gone a long way toward repairing his mood. One thing about their relationship remained consistently true: Garak was never honest, and he was never easy, and being intimate with him would never be anything but risky and ill-advised… but he was always and undeniably worth it.

THE END


End file.
